Full Catch Diorama Read online

  Copyright © 2019 Blue Bench Press, LLC

  [email protected]

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7331485-0-4

  TRIGGER WARNING

  The following work of fiction is intended for an immature audience. If you are easily offended by words or fail to understand satire, please put the book down and report to the nearest groupthink safe space.

  But don’t return the book for a refund. Let’s not do anything crazy.

  Chad’s Diorama

  The eyes open. His eyes. My eyes. There is no difference, we’re one and the same. What he saw, I see. Unified perception.

  It’s a beach somewhere. A private beach. Maybe Bora-Bora or that cheap knock off in the Philippines. No, either Bora Bora or someplace even more exclusive. Some place us worker ants don’t even know about. After all, this is not the type of man who cares about price tags.

  I’m lying comfortably in a wooden beach recliner, close to the pearl white sand. It’s almost surreal how perfect the scene is. The white sands and crystal-clear water. The sounds of the crashing waves and birds calling somewhere outside my field of view. The fresh sea breeze rushing past me. This truly is paradise. If only I could afford the real thing.

  I let myself get carried away, for a moment trying my best to ignore the fact none of this is real. Someone’s touch on my right startles me. I turn and see fingers running gently down my arm. I follow them and find this stunning blonde girl in a light blue bikini. She’s got to be a model or at least a high-end escort. The type of escort whose company costs more per hour than the average car. Totally worth every cent, though. She closes her eyes and giggles with a cute smile then runs towards the water, visibly excited. But I don’t follow her. I stay there in the beach recliner and sip some beer. Even the taste of it is unfamiliar. Hetap brand. One of those thousand-dollar reserve bottles.

  She gets in the water and plays around for a bit. Splashing herself, she calls for me but I stay in the chair, sipping some more beer. Then I see it in her face, but only for an instant. She’s hurt I’m not giving her attention. Or maybe she doubts her ability to satisfy a customer. Maybe she doesn’t realize this guy is used to snorting coke off the ass of one like her or better every night. Sometimes maybe two or three. The sky’s the limit when you’re a celebrity billionaire. She smiles again. It wouldn’t be a good thing to receive unfavorable reviews in her line of work.

  I recline back and stare at the sky for a few minutes. One could only guess what was going through his mind at that moment. Boredom, I think. The poor tortured soul has seen so much, experienced so much. Fucked so many. There is no novelty left in the world for him. Oh, boo-hoo. Cry me a river, plutocrat.

  “Hey,” I hear her voice, as sweet as I had imagined. A singer’s voice. Carefully modulated to seduce. Maybe a singer whose career never picked up. Without friends in the right places, it’s prostitution for you, sweet girl.

  I look down and see her standing a few feet away, soaked in seawater, her sky-blue eyes locked with mine. She smiles slyly then turns around and takes off her bikini top. I nod and take a sip. Still facing away, she does a little dance and undoes the laces keeping the bottoms in place. I don’t react much beyond taking a sip.

  She gets it. This escort or prostitute or whatever, knowing this is her chance at stardom. A once in a lifetime chance to fuck someone already rich and famous. If she does it right, she might get a piece of the pie. Won’t be the first time. Play your cards right, girl, and you might get your own rama channel.

  The dancing doesn’t go on for much longer when she seems to decide it’s been enough teasing and climbs on me. We kiss while my hands go exploring that perfectly smooth skin of hers and she fakes little moans here and there. I know what happens after this. It’s always the same.

  Arias… Brezer… I start in my head, focusing as hard as I can through the mental noise of the diorama. Ceres…

  The scene comes to a standstill then fades to nothingness as the forced dream ends and I wake up inhaling deeply then exhaling. Sleep paralysis goes away after a few seconds and I remove the diorama visor off my head and toss it aside. I sit up on the edge of the capsule, still a little disoriented. Eventually my mind returns to clarity and the loud pop music playing inside Azim’s Rama arcade helps pull me back to reality.

  “You interrupt! Why do you interrupt?” Azim shouts from a distance. I have to rub my eyes to see what’s going on. Other customers in pods around me lie there, visor over their eyes, lost in whatever fantasy they paid for. I notice a wet spot on the crotch of the guy dreaming in the pod next to mine. He’ll be done soon. I wish I hadn’t seen or smelled that.

  “No refunds!” exclaims Azim with his thick Arabic accent. I sit on the edge of the pod still fighting some leftover disorientation and look up to see the Egyptian immigrant. As usual, I wonder why he wears the stereotypical Muslim long shirt and little hat in LA like we’re in the middle of the god damn desert.

  Against the wall, a sign with big stylized lettering reads:

  Remember the Cancel-Out Safe Words!

  Arias-Brezer-Ceres

  Easy as A-B-C!

  “I know, I know,” I drunkenly say, getting off the pod but still leaning on it while I regain my balance.

  “Listen, friend,” says Azim with that deep loud voice that demands attention over the other noises in the arcade, “you stop at the best part!”

  “It’s boring.”

  “Boring?” he asks with a wide misshapen grin. Azim could really use some time alone with an orthodontist. “What you mean boring? You don’t like tits?”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “Porn is always the same. It gets old.”

  “Ah, I see, my friend,” he continues but lowers his voice, sly smile on his face. “I got some exotic ramas in the back. What do you want? Boy? Girl? Age is just a number, I don’t judge!”

  “Nah, I’m done for tonight,” I say and rub my eyes again as I look for the exit.

  “What do you mean done? I got dioramas! Thai, Japanese, Latina, very exotic!”

  “Thanks,” I say with a smile and walk away.

  “Eh! Typical American and your pretend disgust for sex,” says Azim and walks back to his control station in the middle of the room.

  I shrug and look around his fine rama establishment. Most of the pods against the circular wall are occupied. The subtle but distinct smell of fresh semen floats in the air, lightly masked by air fresheners plugged at strategic places along the wall. Makes me wonder just how many customers Azim gets on average. Maybe I should open my own arcade. Regardless of the crash, the one reliable constant of showbiz will never go away. Sex sells. A lot.

  I open the door and step out. It’s dark already but the huge neon sign of Azim’s Rama lights up the street much better than the aging street lamps above. I cover my nose and make my way home. I’ve left the faint scent of cum behind but out here, its piss and shit and a cloud of bodily odors that waft out of the Pershing Square tent city. Fuck, I hate summer. Makes Downtown Los Angeles stink more so than usual.

  Chad Mars. The name runs through my mind. A minor heir of some banking empire turned rama celebrity. Capturing his experiences living the billionaire high life then making the stupid masses his family controls pay for the privilege of dreaming them in diorama form. And all he had to do was pop out of the right cunt. The lucky bastard.

  My place is 3 blocks away. I could have ridden the bike but I like these walks outside, especially in these damn heat waves. It’s close to 9:00 PM. Helps clear the mind to disconnect from it all. Silent cars zip past me, leaving behind their characteristic mist of ionized water and other byproducts of hydrogen synthesis that mask the sour stench of the city for a few seconds.

&nb
sp; Rows of homeless people lie on the sidewalk. Some sleeping. Others getting high. But most of them lost in some rama or another, wearing those shitty portable diorama visors volunteers pass around. I wonder how much the ‘non-profit’ who sells them to the City makes for each one. Probably cheaper than drug rehabilitation. Got to keep my eyes on the ground, watch for discarded needles. Can’t get pricked with one of those. Good luck explaining to people that’s how you got AIDS and not by taking dicks up the ass.

  My building is one of those that used to lease cuck boxes for $10k a month. Totally worth the privilege of a 900xx zip code for the trust fund babies and Hollywood hopefuls. Thank God the crash got rid of the lot. It still got some luxuries but the place is mostly empty. I climb the stairs to the second floor. When I get there, the proximity key unlocks the door to my little fortress of solitude. It’s still a cuck box but at least decently priced and a short walk away from work.

  Step in. Turn on the AC. Wake up my computer. Put wallet, keys and phone on the desk. Get a beer from the fridge. Sit down in front of the computer. Open the browser. Click on the TorChan shortcut. Amuse myself with the rants of social outcasts, pseudo-intellectuals, armchair sociologists and over-analysts for an hour. Maybe two. Just like most evenings. This time, I notice a thread about Chad Mars and lurk for a little bit. Half the anons praise his rugged manliness. The other half points out the unfair benefits of having everything handed to him on a silver platter from birth. I reply to one of those. I defend the billionaire and call the haters ‘commies.’ Couldn’t give two shits about Chad Mars but anon’s reaction to trolling never fails to amuse. I get my quick, cheap dopamine rush, and then a sip of beer. The cheap stuff. Maybe I’ll save up a few month’s salary and buy a bottle of that Hetap stuff Mr. Mars was indulging in his lavish vacation.

  But then I realize. The beer was a native ad embedded in the diorama. Fuck, they almost got me.

  Promoting Synergy

  Dreamax. A subsidiary of Tarios Group, one of those ambiguously named Saudi investment conglomerates. One of the few entertainment companies still trying real hard to make the old Hollywood formula work for rama production, marketing and distribution. Trying real hard and failing. Must suck being a marketing slave in here. How do you even advertise dioramas? Not that I’m complaining. Pays the bills and even if Dreamax crashes and burns, plenty of other companies are always hiring IT guys.

  I like my desk. It faces a window with a nice view of Downtown LA and beyond. At least from the 3rd floor you don’t see the tent cities or condemned buildings full of junkies, that is if you look straight ahead. The water cooler is right next to my cube so I can overhear the slaves talk about fantasy football, hiking trips, the game last night, the latest zany concoction at Starbucks or whatever other fascinating politically correct HR-approved conversation topics they engage in. I like how it’s right next to the staircase access door too. I can come and go and rarely bump into a slave.

  It’s a regular Monday. Trouble tickets start to pile up in the system. Slaves complaining about a harmless pop-up here or a PDF reader update there. Slaves pinging me in chat complaining their computer is slow.

  ‘Please open a ticket and the next available help desk team member will follow up when they reach it in the queue.’

  Standard reply. I have it macroed to my keyboard. I can do things with information systems the slaves can barely comprehend but I’m still distracted by someone’s PDF reader acting up. I guess to them once an IT guy, always an IT guy.

  “Hey bro, did you watch the game last night?” A head pops on the side of my cube.

  “Dave, good morning,” I look up, away from my screen to return the greeting with a smile. Apparently there was a game last night. Sunday night football? Is there a World Cup going on?

  “So, did you watch it?” He insists.

  “Dude, do I look like I care about sports?” I reply, pointing at my size 46 waist. Standard reply, macroed in my head.

  He chuckles. I chuckle too. Must be friendly to the slaves. Must promote interdepartmental synergy and all that.

  “Say, my PDF reader is doing this weird thing where it...” There he goes. Pretend greeting before getting to the point. I barely pay attention to the complaint but still smile and nod.

  “Don’t worry, Dave. Open a ticket and someone from help desk will get to it on the double.” Standard reply, etcetera.

  He looks down. I see a hint of confusion in his face. Dave, all-American specimen. Mid-20s or early 30s. Tall, perfectly combed hair, well-ironed suit. Popular. Probably used to all kinds of doors opening for him with little else than a simple smile. Sales type of guy all around. But it’s not my job to care about his PDF reader troubles.

  “Yeah, I’ll do that,” Dave says and he walks away.

  I stand up and take a peek at the help desk guys in the open office bullpen. Eric talks to Dave. He’ll rescue him from his PDF reader troubles. Mia is on the phone. She remote supports someone. Rich is just sitting there playing Minecraft. Who the fuck still plays Minecraft anymore? I sit back down and continue trying to figure out why this stupid diorama rendering engine keeps failing to boot.

  Save for the usual slaves who assume all sysadmins do is fix PDF Reader, it can be a fun job, playing with expensive information systems equipment and getting paid for it. Most days come and go so fast I don’t realize months pass me by. It’s Independence Day next week. Another year halfway gone.

  It’s time for a break. On my screen, I bring up the Dreamax Intranet to look at the dreamer intake schedule and right there, almost as if by destiny, ToBogan in the house. I stand up and leave my cubicle. Let the help desk guys deal with PDF Reader. Got more interesting shit to do.

  It’s a small office, Dreamax headquarters. It doesn’t take long to go from IT to Pre-Production. Open office. No privacy. Promotes collaboration, Linda from HR says. Promotes synergy. Promotes saving the boss man money on real furniture, I think. I walk past the HR office. Linda and Maria sit inside. Soccer moms. Better not even peek inside and spare a sexual harassment accusation. They have inspirational posters inside. ‘Think like an entrepreneur,’ one reads. More like ‘work 16 hours a day and expect nothing in return, slave,’ I think.

  I take the elevator down to the shops. As soon as it dings and the doors open, I can hear the Aussie legend and steroids enthusiast tell stories surrounding his latest rama capture trip.

  “…oh yeah mate? You try havin’ a naughty ‘nder the outback sun, sweaty, stinky fanny and all…” he loudly says. One of those loud guys who speaks in ALL CAPS IRL.

  I can barely tell what the hell’s he’s going on about half of the time. He stands there in the middle of the catch shop, blathering away about some sexual adventure in the Australian outback. I look around and I see the guys laughing and the few girls in the room, I can categorize into two groups. The ones that look around embarrassed and the rest who bite their lips and give him bedroom eyes. He’s one of the few studio dreamers whose ramas still draw paying customers and so he can act any way he damn pleases, which makes him a pretty cool guy in my book. One wonders how many HR complaints were conveniently ignored for the sake of rama stream revenue.

  “Oi! Teddy, mate,” he shouts enthusiastically as he sees me. “How you doing you fucking nerd!?”

  “I’m doing alright, Topher. Thanks for asking.”

  “This fucking guy right here,” he says, as he comes closer and runs his arm on my shoulders, addressing the room but no one in particular. “This guy always knows where in the outback I am. Fuck, he knows the mating habits of the critters I molest in my ramas.”

  “Well, you know me,” I say a little embarrassed at being put in the spotlight, but at the same time appreciating the call out. “I like to read.”

  “Nah, that’s not it. Smart fucker right here,” he says, pointing at my head with his free hand.

  The man. ToBogan. Eventually he lets go and continues shaking hands and high-fiving the techs. Topher Bass, the rama sensation. The
Top Bogan. The Maximum Straya. Or at least that’s how he called himself back when he was making a name in RamaHub. Nowadays he must dream family-oriented, politically correct, advertiser friendly ramas. A sellout, basically. Still like the guy. I envy the guy. The ease with which he can relate to others. To present himself wide open with zero defenses, completely as he is. Not an ounce of the plastic fakeness you see in people all over the place in LA. No fear. No doubt. Pure confidence. Maybe I can learn something from this true alpha.

  He continues towards the back of the shops and I follow him to the dreamcatchers. The Maximum Straya is scheduled for rama intake with Scott. A technician out of many who tends to the dreamers. They meet by Scott’s dreamcatcher and exchange greetings. ToBogan remembers the names of Scott’s kids and their ages. How the fuck he does that still eludes me.

  “Hey Scott,” I wave to the technician.

  “What’s up Ted? Checking out another intake?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a grin. “I want to steal your job at some point. Teach me your secrets.”

  “No secrets here, friend. Anything I know I’ll share,” he says returning the grin.

  Scott shows ToBogan to his dreamcatcher. It’s a long chair with a device built into the headrest. The Straya lays down and takes a long deep breath then exhales slowly.

  “Ready when you are, mate,” says ToBogan.

  Scott nods and checks the chair here and there. Safety checks. I’ve seen videos online of what happens when a dreamcatcher malfunctions. Not a pretty sight. He seems to be done making sure he won’t lobotomize the Aussie legend then sits down at a workstation next to the chair. ToBogan gives Scott a thumbs up and Scott types something on his keyboard.

  “Alright, big guy,” says Scott. “You know the drill. Relax your body and focus your mind. Give me a nice, clear entry point.”

  I stand behind Scott and watch his workstation monitor. A diagram of a brain and a completion bar underneath show up. Progress updates come up as the catch moves on from one stage to the next.